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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28137234">speculum</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxstories/pseuds/arcadianwriter'>arcadianwriter (noxstories)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(it's my favourite trope leave me alone), ...they all do, Abusive Relationships, Alcohol, Alexis | Quackity-centric, Blood, Canon Compliant, Canon Temporary Character Death, Drug Use, Introspection, Mental Instability, Substance Abuse, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, cannibalism (quackity eats schlatt's heart), characters becoming who they promised they wouldn't be, dark themes, disturbing imagery, lotta angst incoming, not beta read: we die like ghostbur, this guy needs therapy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:14:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,235</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28137234</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxstories/pseuds/arcadianwriter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're dead," Quackity breathes, horror filling him as though he hadn't been contemplating bringing him back at the funeral, "you're dead and gone, so how-"</p><p>"How am I here?" Schlatt interrupts, cruelty twisting his smile in that painfully familiar way. "Gee, I don't know, Quackity. Maybe next time you want a guy gone, don't eat his heart."</p><p>Quackity begins laughing hysterically until he's sobbing.</p><p> </p><p>or,</p><p>Five times Quackity sees Schlatt's ghost, one time he sees him in the mirror, and one time he sees someone else.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexis | Quackity &amp; Clay | Dream, Alexis | Quackity &amp; Floris | Fundy, Alexis | Quackity &amp; Jschlatt, Alexis | Quackity &amp; Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Alexis | Quackity &amp; Toby Smith | Tubbo, no romantic relationships!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>127</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>472</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. laugh until you cry</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hey and welcome to the fic!! this is my first mcyt / dream smp fic, so i'm hoping i do it justice. quackity's character interests me beyond BELIEF, and i'm super excited to explore his character here!! the poor guy just needs a whole lot of therapy :')</p><p>in these beginning notes, i'll put trigger warnings for each chapter: if you want anything added, please let me know!! this is a pretty dark fic, so pls be careful &lt;3</p><p>TW: drug use/addiction, blood, cannibalism (quackity eats schlatt's heart), trauma, abusive relationships, ghosts, general dark themes</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He shows up to the funeral high, because he can’t face it sober, because he’s scared, because if nobody else is going to provide the giggles, he tells himself, he’s damned if he doesn’t at least try. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s useless to even imagine going without them at this point: nobody needs to watch him have a breakdown over the man, the monster who had destroyed so many homes. Quackity’s heart still breaks when he remembers Tubbo’s execution, Niki’s sobs that seemed to echo over Manburg, Fundy’s paranoia, so it makes absolutely no sense for him to miss Schlatt. And he doesn’t, he reminds himself, just on the edge between comfortably numb and totally screwed. He doesn’t miss Schlatt, at all. The man broke his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he does another line until he can’t think straight, and then eats Schlatt’s heart at the funeral.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...Maybe he’s a little fucked up in the head, but then Tubbo pulls out Schlatt’s bones and knocks them together like some horrifically morbid musical instrument, and Tommy raps along to the beat, and Quackity thinks maybe he’s fine compared to those two kids, the sixteen year olds who have been through hell and back in the past four years alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he is fine. He’d eaten his fiance’s heart, yes, but everyone’s relationships have their ups and downs. That’s what Quackity tells himself when he finds himself in the woods after the funeral, shivering uncontrollably and desperately trying to get rid of the taste of blood in the back of his throat. He doesn’t remember eating Schlatt’s heart, doesn’t remember the funeral at fucking all - his memory comes in spasms of horror and twisted amusement, bursts of bones and blood and laughing, and only knows what he’s done because of the taste, the faint feeling that he’d fucked up irreparably this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That, and the concerned message from Sam asking if he’s alright. Quackity wants to cry, so he giggles to himself instead. Oh, Sam, he’s such a father figure. He’s fine. Ask anyone. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quackity. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The comic relief, the hot one, the one there to provide laughs when everyone else is crying. No matter the situation, he is fine, and always has a joke to ease the tension.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, he’s <em>fine</em>, and that’s why he collapses at the edge of a river, sticking his head under the water and opening his mouth and scrubs at it until the taste of blood is almost, almost, nothing but a memory. It’s getting dark by now, sun setting over the hills and through the trees, and Quackity crumples backwards, still shivering, staring sightlessly up at the tree roof above him. He has to head back soon. He knows this. Tubbo needs him - conflict with Tommy or some shit that he doesn’t truly care about, because Tommy’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tommy </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he’s always biting off more than he can chew - and it’s not safe to stay out past dark. Despite their very tumultuous peace, there are monsters that don’t care whose side someone is on, and Dream, who has been frighteningly quiet about things since the Manburg - L’Manburg - explosions, and worse than that, Technoblade, who is on the run and who could be anywhere. Techno has killed him once before, and that is enough to give Quackity a healthy dose of fear in regards to him. He’d take his chances with monsters, with Dream, even, but Technoblade… He’d rather avoid the trouble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Light headed, Quackity pushes himself to his feet and turns around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Schlatt grins at him, decomposing and grey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quackity </span>
  <em>
    <span>screams</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re such a pussy,” Schlatt scoffs, after Quackity is quiet - more out of terror than anything else, “is that any way to greet your old friend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're dead," Quackity breathes, horror filling him as though he hadn't been contemplating bringing him back at the funeral, "you're dead and </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so how-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How am I here?" Schlatt interrupts, cruelty twisting his smile in that painfully familiar way. "Gee, I don't know, Quackity. Maybe next time you want a guy gone, don't eat his heart."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quackity begins laughing hysterically until he's sobbing. Schlatt watches him unsympathetically, and things haven’t changed a bit, god, his luck is so fucking shitty. When he gets ahold of himself, digging his nails into his cheeks until they sting, he looks up, and Schlatt is gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s completely dark now. There are tear tracks on his face. Quackity is painfully reminded of a similar situation only months prior. Schlatt had made him sob like he’d shatter back then, heart breaking upon realising his President isn't who he thought he was. But maybe, just maybe, this had been nothing. Maybe the stress is getting to him- fuck, maybe it’s the drugs, maybe it’s a bad trip and he fucking hallucinated Schlatt. Quackity doesn't know and, at that moment, he doesn’t care. Schlatt isn’t there anymore, and he’s too goddamn warm outside, so begins heading back to Manburg-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-<em>L’Manburg</em>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-to feel the cool wind against his skin and get water. The thought crosses his mind to locate and join the others his age; they’re no doubt still having the after-funeral drinks, and god, it would be nice to get wasted right then. He entertains the thought for a minute, then two.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Careful, Alex,</span>
  </em>
  <span> a voice on the wind taunts him, <em>you know that’s a slippery slope.</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quackity flinches like he’s been hit, and decides to go to bed instead. It’s been a long fucking day, week, year. He’ll finally rest easy after two years of being terrified to do so.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(His nightmares, funnily enough, don’t dissipate with Schlatt six feet under. If anything, they’ve gotten worse. Quackity wakes up exhausted and drained and unwilling to emerge from bed.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(He almost misses Schlatt, but he keeps that to himself.) </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. dreams of the past</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>welcome back to another chapter!! i had fun with this one - i love writing unreliable narrator characters, it's so interesting to work with. poor quackity isn't doing so good :')</p><p>trigger warnings! drug mentions, alcohol use, nightmares, brief references to cannibalism, unstable mental health, trauma, ghosts/possession mentions, mental illness, character death (only in a nightmare!), ptsd flashbacks, toxic relationships (not romantic) - if you need anything else tagged, please let me know!! stay safe &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tommy is exiled, L’Manburg is falling apart, and fuck, Quackity thinks he might be too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The exile is perhaps the tipping point for him - he’s been holding on tenuously for the past few weeks, that have passed in a blur of drugs and danger and Dream’s threats, he’s been a block of TNT whittling down to its fuse, ready to blow - he and Tommy are more alike than Quackity cares to admit, so it’s really no surprise that he finds himself channeling his destructive tendencies after his friend is exiled. Only, unlike Tommy, who knows nothing but war and violence and red, red, </span>
  <em>
    <span>red,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quackity turns his destruction to creation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah. Mexican L’Manburg. He needs to work on the name. He doesn’t quite know how it’s come to be. Doesn’t want to know, actually. One nightmare too many, and he’d come to consciousness again standing in front of a crooked mountain high above L’Manburg, hands dirty and muscles exhausted. When Tubbo asks, he cracks some joke about giving birth and motherhood to stop the President from inquiring any further. It’s weak, but it does the job - Tubbo brushes over the dark circles under his eyes and glosses past the questions he has about Quackity’s health and wellbeing, and boom: Mexican L’Manburg is born. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Quackity is almost proud of it. He’s not been proud of anything in a while. Definitely needs to work on the name though.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, only a short time later, Tommy is exiled, and Tubbo seems to have grown horns. Not real ones, thank fuck, because Quackity doesn’t know what he would have done, but the metaphorical ones are just as awful. He can see them gleaming out of his friend’s head as Tommy is dragged away by a smug Dream, and when he exchanges a look with Fundy, he knows the other can see them too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not physically, not for Fundy, anyway - he’s not out of his mind, not like some people. Not like Quackity, who has to blink and blink again to dismiss the ghost of horns he can see. Another blink, and they’re gone again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So maybe Tubbo glossing over his problems surrounding Mexican L’Manburg is less lucky and more that he’s becoming Schlatt. Because they can’t have </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit </span>
  </em>
  <span>in L’Manburg anymore, not with Dream in charge, not with Tubbo in charge, sweet Tubbo, who is becoming a dictator before his very eyes. Quackity drinks that night for the first time since the festival, and finds relief in the bottom of a bottle. He drinks until he can’t see straight and until he passes out, and it’s in his dreams this time that his actions come back to haunt him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look what the cat dragged in,” Schlatt purrs in his dreams, uncomfortably close, and there’s a familiar gleam in his eyes that has Quackity shaken and delighted to see again, “you look rough, buddy. Worse than me. Which is saying something, because I’m dead as shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quackity buries his head in his hands. “Fuck off,” he tells him, bitterness coating his words like poisoned candy, “what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> are you doing to Tubbo?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he knows Schlatt’s doing something. The steel in Tubbo’s eyes doesn’t belong to the kid himself: it’s too cold, too calculating. That shit he’d pulled with exiling Tommy behind his cabinet’s backs? That’s one hundred percent Schlatt, there’s no question about it. The ghost is doing something to him: fucking with his mind, maybe even possessing him. Quackity steps closer to Schlatt now, fierce, furious beyond anything he’s felt before. A dream or not, if Schlatt doesn't give him answers, he’s going to put his fist through him, again and again, until a heart attack is the last thing he has to worry about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Schlatt laughs and laughs until he’s wiping away tears, and Quackity can only stand there, vicious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck is so funny?” He demands, aching. “Give me a goddamn answer!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Schlatt actually stops laughing obligingly, and glances down at Quackity. There’s an odd look on his face; sympathy, maybe; a cruel sort of pity, more likely. “I’m dead,” he reminds him with a scathing sort of snort, “no ghosting for me. No possession, no influencing, no amnesia-ridden ghost angst arc like Wilbur. I’m not doing shit to Tubbo, Alex. I can’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no no no, don’t fuck with me.” Quackity jabs a finger at Schlatt’s chest. “I know you’re a ghost. I know you are. I fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw </span>
  </em>
  <span>you after the funeral, and that </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>to have been you that convinced Tubbo to exile Tommy. He wouldn’t have done it by himself! You and I both know that!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s blood rushing in his ears, and he’s reminded of his hit list again: Dream, Technoblade, Schlatt, Eret, Wilbur, anyone else that threatens the peace and stability L’Manburg is working so hard to hold on to. Two out of five are already dead. Ghostbur is harmless, as far as he knows, and if he has to kill Schlatt’s ghost, then by God, he will. And Schlatt knows this, Quackity knows he knows this, but looks remarkably unafraid anyway, sitting down in the white void they’re in and tilting his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so convinced about the kid’s possession,” Schlatt says idly, “have you considered that you’re just in denial about what he’s becoming?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quackity, uncharacteristically, has nothing to say. He stops, and he stares, and thinks only </span>
  <em>
    <span>no. No,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he can’t believe this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s thought about it,</span>
  <em>
    <span> yes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s probably just in denial. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No, no, no, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tubbo can't be doing this of his own accord. Because if he’s becoming the next Schlatt without being possessed or being influenced in any way, then L’Manburg is going to end up going down the same slippery red path it had before. His vision blurs, and for a frightening moment, it’s Tubbo in front of him, hands steeped in blood and looking frightened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without thinking, Quackity stoops, taking his friend’s hands in his own, horrified. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tubbo-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean to,” Tubbo whispers, voice breaking, “I didn’t mean to kill him, Quackity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fear rises, reaches a tipping point. “Who did you kill?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Tubbo in his dreams is a broken record, and Quackity, red haze descending, shakes him roughly. He needs to snap him out of this, needs to know Tubbo isn’t saying what he thinks he’s saying. “Tubbo,” he says, lowly, tightly, “Tubbo, tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo looks up at him, and Quackity reels back at the sight of rectangle pupils and horns sharper than a pickaxe. “I didn’t mean to kill him, Quackity,” he says again, but this time there’s a smile on his face, soft, childish, </span>
  <em>
    <span>innocent,</span>
  </em>
  <span> “but he never listens. Tommy never listens. And you know what happens to people who don’t listen to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Quackity is seventeen again, fighting with Schlatt again, and it’s the same as back then, because although he knows Schlatt is dead, the look in his eyes will forever be engraved in his mind, and he can’t shake it. Schlatt had been furious that day, hungover and bitter, and Quackity had made the mistake of checking up on him one too many times. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I thought I told you to leave me alone,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the President had snarled at him, voice hoarse and demanding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quackity had cringed inwardly; outwardly, he’d scoffed, grinning in an automatic defense. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You did,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’d started, </span>
  <em>
    <span>but I wanted to check on you, Schlatt, you-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t remember what the rest of his sentence had been that day. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You look like shit,</span>
  </em>
  <span> maybe, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re worrying me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>probably. But Schlatt had gotten to his feet, slamming a hand into the wall furthest from Quackity, but it had still made him jump back at the time, hands coming up to defend himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You know what happens to people who don’t listen to me, Quackity, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Schlatt had spat, and Quackity had fled.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You know what happens to people who don’t listen to me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tubbo says in his nightmares, and Quackity wants to run, but there’s nowhere to go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he takes a trembling breath, and puts on his Schlatt smile; sleek, professional, steely. It’s been a long time since he’d worn it. It feels almost like a breath of fresh air to wear it again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I listen to you,” he says. It’s a lie. He’s never going to listen to Schlatt again, Tubbo or not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo smiles up at him. There’s a bloody heart between his teeth. “I know you do. You’re my right hand man, Quackity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quackity is falling now, falling through white and black and right and wrong and good and evil and he has to squeeze his eyes shut because all he can see is Schlatt, who turns into Tubbo, who starts growing golden wings, donning a beanie and familiar jacket until he’s Quackity, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>the one falling, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>screams-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes up on the couch, mouth dry, head burning. He’s hungover as shit, but he’s alive, and he’s alone in his house, with no sign of Schlatt or Tubbo anywhere. Taking a deep breath, he tries to count to ten in his mind, but his head is scrambled and he needs </span>
  <em>
    <span>air.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Instead of dwelling on his nightmare, he staggers to the window, throwing it open and sticking his head out too far. The night’s air is cool and refreshing, and he begins to feel better the longer he’s there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m okay,” he whispers, though it’s more of a plea than it is reassurance, “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe if he says it enough, it’ll begin to be true. Another deep breath, and Quackity comes back to himself, slowly, surely. Just like always.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He pretends he can’t feel something pulsing inside of him, wrong, out of beat with his own heartbeat. If he thinks too much about it, it’ll make him sick.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when Tubbo suggests something in their next cabinet meeting, Quackity speaks over him, shoots him down roughly, because Schlatt is laced in every one of the kid’s words, and he can’t have that. Quackity isn’t going to let one of his best friends fall to the same fate as the previous President, even if it’s the last thing he ever does. Tubbo won’t be the next Schlatt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright, Big Q?” Tubbo asks after the meeting, voice full of worry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quackity smiles at him, nice and easy. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks. “You know me, man. I’m good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo shoots him a look that’s more shrewd than Quackity ever remembers him being, but claps him on the back and moves on without saying anything else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Quackity can still see his horns as he walks away. He can’t tell anymore if they’re real or not.)</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>there we have it, i hope you enjoyed!!! if you did, consider leaving a kudos and/or comment - they really make my day, tysm to everyone who commented on the last chapter!! i hope you liked this one just as much :)</p><p>quackity is really beginning to spiral now, and it only gets worse before it gets better! chapter three will be up soon; thank you guys for all the support!! ily all, pls remember this is just my take on roleplay characters and in no way relates to real life / content creators' real persons.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. too close to the sun</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>el rapids is on the map, and is far, far closer to the sun than it should be.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>another chapter!! i am.... absolutely stunned i've kept up motivation to post three days in a row, holy shit. this is the most fun and interest i've ever had in writing a fic, so fingers crossed this keeps up in order for me to finish it!! </p>
<p>this chapter isn't quite as dark as the other two - it's a lot more plot based and fits better in line with canon, which is interesting!! i still had a lot of fun writing this, despite it not being as dark, and think it works well.</p>
<p>tw - character dream being a manipulative asshole, violent/dark thoughts, plot-typical violence, plot-typical swearing, suicide mention</p>
<p>(you know it's a dark fic when it still lists triggers despite claiming not to be a dark chapter HSDSBFDJFB)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Everything starts falling to pieces much quicker after that. The funny thing about time in L’Manburg is that it doesn’t seem to move normally anymore. It’s a smudge, a circle, all the days and nights moulding into one long hell. Nothing is distinguishable anymore; he’s almost glad about this, because at least this feels more like a nightmare he’ll one day wake up from rather than real life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quackity’s beginning to think that he isn’t going to get out of this nightmare intact. He’s growing less surprised by this and more resigned. He’d been an idiot to think that Schlatt’s death would solve all their problems. It feels like Schlatt has never been more alive; Quackity sees him in every move Tubbo makes, hears him in the slightest word the kid utters, notes the dark circles under Tubbo’s eyes and wonders bitterly when he’ll start drinking. He does his best to keep Tubbo as Tubbo-like as possible - makes sure he takes breaks, pushes him to do what’s best for L’Manburg, and most of all, shoots down most of the ideas Tubbo has to stop him from letting the power get to his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s what happened to Schlatt, after all. And Quackity can’t deal with another Schlatt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Especially not right now, with Dream breathing down their backs. He’s not happy with Mexican L’Manburg, because of course he’s not, and he’s less happy when George and Sapnap join it - so unhappy, in fact, that he makes perhaps the biggest mistake of his life and dethrones George in the middle of the night. Publicly. It’s humiliating, and Quackity witnesses every moment of it. Most L’Manburgians are asleep - it’s two in the fucking morning, but he didn’t sleep anymore, so he’s wide awake and crystal clear in a way he hasn’t been in </span>
  <em>
    <span>weeks.</span>
  </em>
  <span> George is bitterly upset, Sapnap bitterly disillusioned, and Quackity is bitter, bitter, bitter, about Dream and Eret and their whole situation, and the fire in his heart at the mention of George’s name</span>
  <em>
    <span> (“maybe if you’d showed up for elections,” he’d snarled only a week or so ago, body tight with fury and bitter resentment over the past and </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>how things could have gone</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>, “none of this would have happened!”)</span>
  </em>
  <span> has finally, finally, extinguished itself. Maybe he’s finally beginning to heal, get better, move on from the past. Maybe this is recovery.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe this is a setback, because he finds himself demanding regicide and a thirst for blood like never before, and George and Sapnap both agree. Eret’s head for George’s crown. Quackity doesn’t quite know why he’s doing this; maybe it just feels good to have people on his side, listening to him, looking up to him like they once had Dream. Maybe it makes him feel powerful, to finally be the one calling the shots like he’s Schlatt or Dream. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe it’s an excuse to be destructive instead of unleashing his emotions in a healthier way. He doesn’t suppose it matters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So shit hits the fan! It usually does. Quackity isn’t surprised. What he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>surprised about are his own actions: allowing Karl, his best friend, to sacrifice one of his lives, orchestrating a war in the middle of the night, declaring Mexican L’Manburg’s independence. His plans backfire, somewhat - he underestimates how much Dream cares about Eret being king, underestimates him actually getting involved, and fuck, fighting Dream is terrifying. Dream is in the wrong, he always fucking is, but Quackity has never felt more</span>
  <b>
    <em> alive;</em>
  </b>
  <span> he pushes, pushes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>pushes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> until Dream snaps, and Quackity is on his knees watching Mexican L’Manburg being blown up in front of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are tears in his eyes, but they’re tears of anger. He’s going to burn everything Dream cares about to the fucking ground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps the most surprising event of the whole conflict is his victory in Dream. Not in a fight, he’s not that stupid - trying to 1v1 Dream of all people is</span>
  <em>
    <span> suicidal,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he’s not that bad - but in an argument. A debate. Quackity has always excelled in debates and verbal fights; remembers, almost wistfully, a time before everything where he’d been prepping to attend law school in Dream SMP faction, before L’Manburg and Pogtopia and everything that had happened since. A law student against a master manipulator, a god, the director pulling the strings on the actors behind the scenes - and he wins. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not the victory he’d wanted, but the one he’d needed. Everything feels sharper and better with the rush of triumph bleeding through his veins like gold dust - the tight expression behind his smiling mask and defensive tone from Dream will forever be engraved into his mind as a reminder that he is, in some ways, more powerful than Dream and the big players. Maybe not in terms of brute strength or fighting or violence, but with words? Quackity is the most dangerous of them all, and Dream better watch out, because if he’s not careful, Quackity will pull him to his fucking knees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Dream knows it, too. Knows it, because he shows up at his house when Quackity gets back from a cabinet meeting only a few days later. Quackity freezes, hand falling to his hip for a sword, and curses internally upon not finding it. A vague memory of leaving his sword in his bedroom before the meeting resurfaces, and he could scream at his foolishness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream glances up from where he’d been inspecting a bookshelf, expression placid and unreadable. “Quackity,” he says, and Quackity stiffens, “small world. Fancy seeing you here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In his defence, Quackity isn’t aggressive immediately. He doesn’t have a death wish. Instead, he laughs, nervous and flighty, internally assessing the possible exits and plans he has available. “Well, this is my fucking house,” he points out, tone polite and approachable, he’s not about to let Dream see how unsettled he’s made him, “it makes sense why </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re the intruder,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he wants to spit, because he’s been so full of fire these days that sometimes it’s hard to control. But Dream is still vaguely smiling, vaguely friendly, and it’s frightening, so Quackity keeps himself quiet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, right.” Dream wanders back and around his house, ever fidgety, ever restless, and Quackity dares to step further into his own house. “I thought I’d pay you a quick visit. Congrats on El Rapids, by the way. I don’t think we’ve met formally since our little…. ah, skirmish.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>El Rapids, right. He’d finally renamed it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mexican L’Manburg</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn’t have the same ring as </span>
  <em>
    <span>El Rapids,</span>
  </em>
  <span> though he misses its simpler days, when Mexican L’Manburg had been an escape from the ever growing conflict and tension of L’Manburg. El Rapids is independent, yeah, and it’s what he’d wanted, and now he’s in charge of a whole country - the President, the fucking President, finally,</span>
  <em>
    <span> three fucking cheers for Alex Quackity</span>
  </em>
  <span> - but with being President of one country and Vice President of another brings even more stress than before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn’t want us on the map,” Quackity says, finding the guts to speak his mind with a scoff that’s braver than he, “I don’t think you mean that congratulations, Dream.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream chuckles, because of course he does, the irritating bastard. Quackity imagines caving his head in with the pickaxe in his inventory for a brief moment, just to picture the smile sliding off his face, the chuckle turning to a plea. And then he shakes off those thoughts, because what the fuck is wrong with him? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It wasn’t that I didn’t want </span>
  <em>
    <span>El Rapids</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the map, Quackity,” he says, and shakes his head as if Quackity is stupid, “come on, now. I have no quarrel with El Rapids. It can do what it wants, as long as it doesn't cause me anymore problems. If it does - well, I have plenty more TNT in my inventory.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>L’Manburg, Manburg, El Rapids, all of them blowing up, exploding, becoming nothing. He stiffens, body growing more tense than before. “But you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> have a quarrel with me,” he says, before he can help himself, “with me, and with George and Sapnap too. How does </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> feel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The smile wipes itself clean from Dream’s face, very suddenly. He looks a lot more tired, underneath his mask, and Quackity is viciously, cruelly pleased with himself. He’d never believed Dream’s little speech about caring for nothing but the discs - it’s nice to see that his suspicions are right. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s right,” he jibes, stepping closer; Dream mimics his step, but the expression on his face is entirely blank, curiously distant, “you’re a fucking idiot, Dream. You’ve lost the only people who were behind you one hundred percent. You and Tommy both lost this stupid play of yours. He’s exiled, sure, but you’ve lost everyone. And you know that, don’t you? How bad does that sting?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quackity,” Dream says, mild enough that it wouldn’t have been a warning from everyone else, “I think-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tyrants have nobody in the end, Dream.” It’s adrenaline that’s pushing him on, adrenaline and fear and red hot pounding anger that makes everything sharp. Feeling too sharp is better than being rounded edges and soft - that’s how he gets hurt. He’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>tried</span>
  </em>
  <span> that, tried it with Wilbur and Schlatt and it had backfired like always, so being sharp now and having it pay off is </span>
  <em>
    <span>exhilarating.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “You’ve gone too far. You can’t control all of us. Not George. Not Sapnap. And not-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not you, either?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence. Quackity knows there’s a right answer, and then the right answer blurs, and for a hesitant moment, he isn’t sure. “No, not me,” he says brazenly, injecting the tone into his words, “I’d rather die than let another dictator have any sort of control over me. Been there, fucking done that, wasn’t a fan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, and the look on Dream’s face - the part he can see, anyway - is suddenly </span>
  <em>
    <span>amused,</span>
  </em>
  <span> syrupy and slick and Quackity wants to murder him, but his fear is rising, ovetaking his confidence. Had he pushed too far? Despite his feigned arrogance and his unfeigned anger, Dream is still far, far more powerful than him, and he knows it. If Dream wanted him dead, nobody would be able to stop him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“El Rapids is pretty high up,” Dream says, after a long, long silence that has Quackity wanting to scream, “pretty close to the sun. What was the thought behind that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quackity opens his mouth. No sound comes out. He doesn’t know where this is going; feels unsettled, ungrounded. Dream cocks his head, finally coming to a halt in front of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Has anyone ever told you about Icarus, Quackity?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Icarus. The name rings a bell. He frowns, thrown off by the change in conversation. “Who?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream’s smile could have cut through the bloodied diamond of Quackity’s sword. “No, no, nobody, really. Just a Greek myth.” He moves towards the door, easy, suddenly in control again as if he’d never faltered at the thought of being alone. “You should be careful, though. Techno has a liking of Greek myths, or so I’ve heard. He’s still waiting for Theseus: you better watch out that he doesn’t catch sight of you. Good things don’t happen to heroes, you know. Just look at Tommy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Just look at Tommy indeed.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then Dream is gone, like he’d never been there to begin with, and Quackity blinks, entirely spooked and firmly on edge. Without thinking, he instantly locates his sword, picking it up and refusing to put it down until he’s sure Dream isn’t nearby. He hunts manically through his whole house, pulling the place apart to ensure Dream is really, truly gone, before slumping down against the wall, taking a deep breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not a hero. Not yet. Tommy is the hero. But maybe, despite all of their similarities, this is where he and Tommy differ. Tommy doesn’t want to be the hero.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quackity? Fuck, what </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> he giving up to try and be the hero?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Deep breaths, in and out. Dream is gone, and he is safe. El Rapids is independent, Quackity is surrounded by friends, and the good guys always win. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“If this is winning,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>a voice from all around him snickers, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“then I’d hate to see you lose.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quackity lashes out, hisses a </span>
  <em>
    <span>“leave me the fuck alone”</span>
  </em>
  <span> through gritted teeth and slams a fist against the wall until it’s smeared with blood. Schlatt’s voice disappears, but his presence litters the whole house. Every breath of air he takes feels polluted, and he wants to scream.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span><em>The good guys always win,</em> he repeats in his head desperately, hysterically, <em>the good guys always win.</em></span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>(He ignores history that always seems to prove otherwise.)</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>another chapter done!!! i hope you all enjoyed &lt;3 if you did, pls consider leaving a kudos and / or comment !! they really do inspire me to keep writing :)</p>
<p>quackity as icarus drives me WILD and is such a good comparison and i am so so excited to drive this home in further chapters sdbcjdsbkc</p>
<p>have a good day and stay tuned for a fourth chapter coming soon!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. happy place</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi, welcome back to another chapter!! i'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but i've been pushing on it for three days, and decided just to post it now in order to get to the better chapters kdbkd!! this is also the longest chapter i've written- pog!!- and, imo, the darkest, but in a different way. quackity really reflects on his relationship with schlatt and the abuse he went through, so please be careful when reading!! watch for the trigger warnings and stay safe &lt;3</p>
<p>tw: alcohol abuse, reflecting on / thoughts on abuse &amp; toxic relationships, hallucinations/ghosts, trauma, swearing, mental breakdown, BIGGEST TRIGGER: introspection on missing an abuser (see below).</p>
<p>please note!! i'm not trying to romanticise abuse!! a common symptom of recovery from abuse is having a mixed perspective of the abuser - i tried to portray this in quackity as best as i could from my own experience and research. quackity understands how bad schlatt was, but after dealing with him for so long, misses him and the familiarity of their routine. it's something therapy and time fixes: not that quackity gets the time or therapy he needs to heal just yet :')</p>
<p>be careful while reading, and without further ado, enjoy!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Hey, hey, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s like a hurricane tore through this place.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A voice in the red and black haze, fading in and out of earshot. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He blinks. It’s familiar. It’s impossible to place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was he attacked? Was it-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hearing slips away again. He hangs in a void, sickly and numb. It feels good. Really good. He would pend eternity in this feeling, if he could.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no.” The first voice speaks again, drawing him back to the present. There’s a hard, cold note in the voice, one that he’s only heard a few times, and never directed at him. It makes him want to flinch away, but it’s impossible to control his own limbs right now. “No, Tubbo, it wasn't Dream.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a nudge at his side. Painful. Enough to disrupt the haze. Enough to make him frown. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How does it feel to be on the other side of the scene this time, Quackity?” The same voice demands.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Quackity,</span>
  </em>
  <span> that’s his name, if he focuses - blinks, and a bleary image of a roof appears in front of him, with blurred and out of focus figures bent over him, shrouding his view of the ceiling. Another blink, and his vision clears enough to let him see worried blue eyes on one side and familiar fluffy ears on the other. Eyes slipping shut instinctively, lifting one heavy arm to block out the harsh light from his eyes, all he can manage is a groan, that means a simultaneous </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck you</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck off.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fundy gets the hint, but doesn’t take it, only kicking his side a little harder. “How much have you had to drink?” He asks, and Tubbo inhales sharply like he’s finally cottoned on, which is stupid, because he hasn’t been drinking. Quackity hasn’t touched alcohol since the festival, wouldn’t dare to - he’s not Schlatt, notorious alcohol addict and abuser - he’s not been drinking. He’s not that bad.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twisting over doesn’t knock him to the floor, as he’d imagined, but maybe that’s because he’s on the floor already. Instead, rolling over brings a thud, and a dull pain at the side of his head, and the distinct sound of a bottle falling and rolling away from him. When had he ended up on the floor? Had he ever been on the couch? He remembers vaguely being there at some point; head between his hands, palms pressed into his eyes, blocking out- something. Someone? He can’t quite remember.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he doesn’t feel as good anymore. Something is wrong inside him, something is wrong in his body and mind. There’s not a name for it, he doesn’t think, not one that he’s willing to admit to anyway, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>something isn’t right. Maybe that’s why he’s like this: on the floor, body heavy, limbs uncooperative. Maybe that’s why Fundy is angry at him - though Fundy is angry at everyone nowadays, at Wilbur and at Phil and at Eret and at Tommy and Tubbo and now Quackity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, that makes two of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quackity?” There’s a tone in Tubbo’s voice that he recognises - something clinically calm, something brisk and with just the right degree of concern that grates on him. It’s the voice he’d use with Schlatt when one of them discovered him in a similar position, the voice Quackity had taught him to use to avoid their President bringing any more wrath down on them than he already did. To hear Tubbo using it now was enough of a shock to make him blink, dragging himself out of the depths of his haze and forcing himself to assess the situation. “Quackity, are you alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Quackity. Not Big Q.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quackity groans, and then splutters indignantly when liquid - cold, biting liquid, enough to make him shiver - pours all over him, effectively shocking him into sitting bolt upright, wiping the water furiously out of his eyes and off his face. Insults and curses, half formed, are born and die on his lips, because he’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>Schlatt,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he doesn’t get mean when he’s drunk-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not that he’s drunk, he doesn’t drink, he hasn’t been drinking, he’s not Schlatt he’s not he’s not-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What did I tell you about the slippery slope, Alex?” Schlatt asks from behind Fundy and Tubbo, his voice a scathing mockery of concern, and oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>right,</span>
  </em>
  <span> that’s why he’d been drinking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Schlatt has been hovering around him as of late - a flash of a silvery smile here, a glimpse of ram horns there - and nothing Quackity does seems to drive him away. He’s tried almost everything he can possibly think of; ignoring him only makes him raise his voice and his smirk grow meaner, threatening only makes him laugh and get more cruel in his remarks, snapping back only makes other people around him give him odd looks, looks that say silently </span>
  <em>
    <span>“what the fuck” </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>“God, not another maniac”</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>“this was probably inevitable”</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Quackity is trapped. Has been for weeks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This had been his last resort. A pathetic, last ditch effort to drown out the voice of the one man he missed and hated with every atom in his body. Quackity doesn’t quite remember when he’d started drinking - to his horror, there’s a lot he can’t remember recently - all he remembers is wrinkling his nose at the taste, desperate to stop, forcing himself to continue, and then-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then things had been quiet for so long, blissful silence from his feelings and thoughts and the world around him, blissful silence form dwelling on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Schlatt,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and how much his presence is a thing to fear but worse, a thing to crave. Schlatt is a bad man. He knows this. He’s not <em>that</em> twisted. But Schlatt looks at him sometimes, and all Quackity can feel is a familiar burning fire in his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because - and he’ll admit this only when plastered out of his mind - he </span>
  <em>
    <span>misses</span>
  </em>
  <span> what they had. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>misses</span>
  </em>
  <span> Schlatt and his cruel words and the backhanded insults that would make him cry. He misses the fights, the shouting matches that had left him feeling equal parts worthless and electric. Things have only gotten worse since Schlatt had died, and worse, they’ve gotten more complicated - dealing with Schlatt had been simple. It had been a matter of survival, of not stepping on toes, a game of seeing how much he could get away with before Schlatt had wrought hell on him. Now, it’s like that, but amplified. He’s not treading on tiptoes anymore: he’s treading on spikes that cut his feet and threaten to send him plummeting to his death. They all are. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And nobody- not Tubbo, not Fundy or Niki or Ranboo or anyone - seems to realise how fucked they all are. Or maybe they’re just better at hiding it, or better at lying to themselves, or better people. Maybe to them this is better than Schlatt: nobody is being outright killed or bullied anymore, not like they had been under Schlatt’s regime, and public execution is completely off the table. But Quackity is on fire, burning with passion and anger and vengeance, and honestly? Publicly executing someone sounds like a fucking thrill. Anything to make a bold move, to stop whispering behind backs and making plans behind closed doors. Because it’s driving him insane.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He says nothing of this, though: doesn't think he’s capable of speaking coherently at the moment, so instead, he mumbles something vague, that makes Fundy snort and Tubbo steady him and Schlatt laugh like there is anything funny about this. Maybe there is! What the fuck does Quackity know anymore? He hopes someone, somewhere is finding enjoyment out of this. Someone other than Schlatt, who brushes his hair back out of his hair and tucks it back into his beanie like he cares. Quackity tries and fails not to lean into the touch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a mess,” Schlatt tells him, voice contemplative, “how long til your heart gives out, Icarus?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quackity pitches forwards in his half hearted attempt to get to his feet. Schlatt grins at him, all teeth and claws and nastiness. He wants to shout at him, but Tubbo is speaking to him, pulling him from the ring of consciousness that Schlatt is in to the present. He feels sick.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“-hear us,” Tubbo murmurs to Fundy, voice low.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though Quackity isn’t looking at him, he hears the eye roll in the fox’s voice. “Or he’s ignoring us. Don’t make me pour more water on you, Quackity.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” Quackity mutters, hunching over and pressing his knees to his eyes hard enough that things start going static and fuzzy, “leave me the <em>fuck</em> alone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Things are getting clearer, though. Fundy’s scoff is sharper in his head, and he can feel Tubbo’s hands steading him, keeping him upright almost painfully, and he can feel the cold wind on his skin and taste the scotch on his breath. He tastes something bitter in the back of his throat: maybe alcohol, <em>probably</em> alcohol, probably blood and metal, probably death. Worst of all, Schlatt is in full focus, crystal clear and louder than the others, who pale in comparison to the ghost. Quackity isn’t even sure he is a ghost anymore; maybe Schlatt is a demon now, sent to torture him from Hell; maybe he’s something worse. Maybe he’s not there at all, and he’s finally having a mental breakdown like Tommy had cheerfully predicted all those months ago when he’d joined Pogtopia in the war. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Chin up, Big Q,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Tommy had said back then, bright eyed and grinning, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“it’s not time for a breakdown. Have one when we’ve won. The ladies love a troubled man.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quackity had laughed back then, but now, he wants to punch Tommy, which is mean, because he’s probably going through Hell in exile, and funny, because Tommy would absolutely be making fun of him right now. </span>
  <em>
    <span>There are no fucking ladies in L’Manburg,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he would have told Tommy if he could go back in time, — and it’s true, other than Niki and Alyssa and Puffy, and he doesn’t count them. Niki will be gone with Fundy before long, and Alyssa had run away years ago, during the Independence War, and Puffy is closer to Dream than she is to anyone else. Tommy Innit would be beside himself if he had been here. Quackity wonders dejectedly if there are more women in exile. Maybe Tommy has the best fate out of them all. Exile isn’t sounding so bad at the minute.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re going through a big fuckin’ character arc, and you’re barely even acknowledging me,” Schlatt complains, his voice a grating comfort to Quackity’s ears, “what a waste of my time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quackity contemplates punching him, and eventually decides against it on two accounts; the first being that he’s worried about accidentally-on-purpose punching Fundy for being a dick, and the second being that he’s entirely unsure about whether it’s possible to punch ghosts and hallucinations, and doesn’t want to look like an idiot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hate you,” he says instead, voice incoherent and exhausted and bitter, always bitter, “you fucked all of us over.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know that’s not true,” Schlatt croons, “you were fucked from the start. Manburg would have fallen no matter who ruled. It would've been worse if Wilbur was in charge, and you know it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quackity-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quackity ignores Fundy, locking eyes with Schlatt and resisting the urge to spit at his feet. His head is too addled and he feels too nauseous, so he contents himself with glaring hatefully, <em>longingly,</em> instead. “I hate you,” he insists.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Schlatt grins. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>wish</span>
  </em>
  <span> you did, baby. You fucking wish you did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, Big Q,” Tubbo breathes; a nervous, flighty sound that has guilt (or maybe nausea) building in Quackity’s stomach alongside the venom, “don’t be like him. We just want to help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t be like him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The world stops, tilts precariously, shivers. Quackity stops with it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not,” he begins, pitifully, pathetically, and kicks himself when he realises exactly who his alcohol-slurred, grief-tinted voice sounds like, “I’m not him. I’m not-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thing is, he’s not sure he believes this anymore. Because he’d eaten Schlatt’s heart, and if this isn’t possession - this gradual change, this ghosting, this anger that has made a home inside him - then he doesn’t fucking know what is. His shoulders slump, his head bows, and Quackity is staggered by the realisation that </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh,</span>
  </em>
  <span> God, he is becoming Schlatt. They all are, in their own ways. Fundy’s loneliness and Tubbo’s struggles and his pulsing, breathing anger that stretches out inside him, Tommy’s aggression and Niki’s isolation and all of their problems; they’re becoming Schlatt and Wilbur and Dream, the whole lot of them. Quackity would have laughed if he hadn’t been so close to sudden tears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, man,” he whispers, heart breaking, “I miss him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Tubbo lets him lean against his shoulder in a Tubbo sort of squeeze of his arms, and Fundy, in an uncharacteristically kind move, shifts away bottles and mess in the room (Quackity confesses later to himself about smashing the room up, but that’s neither here nor now) to sit beside him and rub his back comfortingly. He sits directly in front of Schlatt, whether he knows it or not, and Quackity’s vision is blurred with tears he refuses to let fall, so Schlatt is out of his line of sight entirely. He’s grateful, eternally so, and maybe just a little bit miserable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s okay, though. They all are.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I miss him too,” Tubbo whispers, but Quackity knows he’s talking about Tommy, not Schlatt, “I miss him so much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do too. I miss him.” Fundy’s voice is soft, and his words are entirely focused on Wilbur. It’s funny how similar they all are, and how distant at the same time. Nestled between his friends, Quackity knows he should feel some sense of relief: maybe even the beginning of recovery. But he doesn’t. He feels hollow, sick with drink and anger and guilt that he misses </span>
  <em>
    <span>Schlatt,</span>
  </em>
  <span> of all the fucking people. It’s worse than missing </span>
  <span>Dream,</span>
  <span> like he knows George and Sapnap secretly do, worse than missing anyone else, because Schlatt had been a monster. Quackity doesn’t even miss his nicer moments, when he’d snicker at Quackity’s jokes and make Quackity feel special; fuck, he misses the fights, the worst parts of their friendship and professional relationship.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And how fucked up is that? Tubbo misses his best friend, Fundy misses the man his father had been, and <em>Quackity</em> misses the dictator who ruined his life. Go fucking figure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s painful to think about, and even more painful to feel, curled up with the two people Schlatt had hurt most. What would Tubbo and Fundy think if they found out who he misses? It isn’t worth thinking about too deeply, and for a moment, Quackity wishes they’d left him to his drunken stupor. It had been easier to deal with than this; the painful agony of just </span>
  <em>
    <span>knowing.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“One day, everything will be okay,” Tubbo says, voice cracking, and he sounds younger than his sixteen years, “I’m going to make L’Manburg the place it used to be. I promise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh Tubbo,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quackity thinks, but doesn’t dare say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>L’Manburg has always been like this. It has never known anything but war. You of all people should know that.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of pushing, he closes his eyes, blocking out the outside world and focusing on Tubbo’s heartbeat and the feeling of Fundy’s hair against his neck. He forces himself to believe in his President’s promise. L’Manburg will know peace, sooner rather than later. All their enemies will disappear one day, and on that day, everything will be over. Fuck, maybe they can finally hire a therapist in L’Manburg, God knows they’d be needed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then the image in his head of a happier L’Manburg is blown to shred by Wilbur’s manic laugh and Dream’s mask, always smiling, always watching, crawling around inside his mind like spiders. Schlatt holds a permanent residence there too: a constant reminder that peace can never come to a place born from war and blood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I trust you,” Quackity murmurs to Tubbo, as he drifts into a sleep that's the quietest he's had in months, “I trust you, Tubbo.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a lie. Tubbo never finds out. Some things are better kept secret, and Quackity will take this one to his grave.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>maaaaan, poor big q and the gang - i felt really bad for them while writing the end of this chapter, i just want to give them all a hug and a LOT of therapy :')</p>
<p>i hope you enjoyed!! if you did, pls consider leaving a like and / or comment: the lovely comments so far have made my day, seriously, and encourage me to keep writing, so it means a lot!! thank you!!</p>
<p>the Exciting chapter is coming next, the one we've all been waiting for - quackity's fight with techno &gt;:) i'm super excited to start writing this chapter, and already am confident in my grasp on how to do it, so be prepared for that!!!</p>
<p>once again, tysm for reading - i love you all, have a wonderful day and night!!! &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. pickaxe promises</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>another chapter!! sorry this took so long — i’ve been busy over the christmas period and struggled with a few paragraphs of this, but finally, here it is!! the events from november 16th!! i really enjoyed writing this chapter haha, and hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!!</p>
<p>a lot of the dialogue from this chapter was taken from the november 16th stream, so kudos to quackity, techno and tubbo for giving me some raw ass lines to work with!!</p>
<p>i hope you all had good holidays :) please see below for trigger warnings!!</p>
<p>TW (not all of these are main events hit it’s better to be safe than sorry!) — blood, drowning mention, disturbing imagery, major character death (temporary), swearing, trauma, unhealthy coping mechanisms (ie hunting a blood god down and trying to kill him), gore mentions, twisted thinking, dissociation, general dark themes, plot-typical violence.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Blood. Quackity dreams of nothing but blood, and when he wakes up, it’s all he can think about. It’s everywhere; dripping off the flowers growing tentatively around the gardens, spilling over the roofs of every house, poisoning the water of every river he passes - the whole of L’Manburg is covered in it. It’s funny, in a tragic, awful sort of way, and entirely unsurprising. Their whole nation had been made steeped in blood, and the fact the whole place is practically choking in it now is downright <em> hilarious. </em></p>
<p>Quackity thinks so, anyway. He’s not sure the others do. He’s not even sure they can see the blood.</p>
<p>If anyone, he’s certain it would be Tubbo able to see it. The kid’s been surprisingly on board with him recently, and they’ve only grown closer than ever; yes, sure, he keeps Quackity steadily away from alcohol, which is annoying, because it makes him feel like an addict or something, which he’s <em> not, </em> but Tubbo plays along with everything he suggests. It makes him feel better to dedicate everything in him to the Butcher Army, to ignore the rest of L’Manburg and El Rapids and focus entirely on the anger pouring out of him in floods. Because yes, he’s President and Vice President, but there are more important things than those countries right now, there are more important things than looking after them. </p>
<p>Peace, for one, and whatever other bullshit reasons he gives Tubbo to excuse his thirst for Technoblade’s blood.</p>
<p>It really is bullshit. All that’s been on his mind for days, weeks, months at this point, is desire for revenge. Control, even. Someone to recognise how much fucking power he really has, someone to stop underestimating him. Because he knows he’s a big fucking player (he has to be, a tremulous voice murmurs in his head, because he can’t just be <em> Quackity, </em> victim and angry and frightened, he refuses to be), and it’s about fucking time people started taking him seriously.</p>
<p>Killing Technoblade will be killing two ugly birds with one bloodied stone. People will look up to him, turn to him to help keep the peace and for guidance like they <em> always </em>should’ve, and Technoblade will be one life closer to permanently dead. He and Technoblade will even be on equal lives - and God, doesn’t that send thrills down his spine? If he’d had his way, he would have been tracking the pig down ages ago, but Tubbo - steady, constant, clever Tubbo, had placed hands on his shoulders, promised him not to be rash.</p>
<p>“I don’t want any of us hurt or to do anything stupid,” his President had said, worry lining his voice, “I want you to be smart about this, Big Q. Please.”</p>
<p>And Quackity had grinned and promised carelessly and saltured with a playful smirk, but that had been weeks ago. The Butcher Army is fully equipped to take Technoblade down now, and God, Quackity has never been more ready.</p>
<p>He’s buzzing with energy, electrified and fizzing with hunger as he organises the Army members - less of an army than it is a bunch of traumatised teenagers going to track down a god, but hey, he’s not complaining. At least maybe the nightmares will stop for all of them when they all realise that Technoblade isn’t as powerful or as immortal as he seems. Maybe the trauma will begin to fade, and they can get on with doing what Quackity really wants - making El Rapids and L’Manburg places to be feared, revered, respected. </p>
<p>(Feared, most of all. He needs someone to fear <em> him </em>for once instead of the other way round.)</p>
<p>(They may be on the fucking map, but Quackity wants them to be so much more than that.)</p>
<p>Tubbo and the rest of the Army are surprisingly laid back about this, much to his annoyance. They’re half-hearted about the whole trip - Fundy cracks nervous jokes and Ranboo seems rather uncomfortable with the full thing, and Quackity has to force Tubbo into putting Phil into house arrest when it’s discovered he’s keeping information from them-</p>
<p><em> (“Philza Minecraft,” he drawls, a sinister grin lighting up his face at the way Phil’s expression snaps blank at the sight of the compass, “what the </em> <b> <em>fuck </em> </b> <em> is this?” </em></p>
<p><em> And Phil says nothing at first, but Quackity doesn’t need to hear it, because he already knows, already knows Phil’s crimes. Another nail in the coffin, another threat to L’Manburg’s peace, another </em> <b> <em>Schlatt </em> </b> <em> that Quackity needs to get rid of.) </em></p>
<p>-but Tubbo listens, and does so with an air of disinterest. Quackity doesn’t care. He’s on fire, delighted to finally get to enact his plans and lead the mission, so he doesn't waste any time on leading the other three to Techno’s house, as far away as it is and as unfocused as they are. He even finds himself snapping at them a few times - which is fine, completely fine, because they’re not taking this as seriously as they should be, and he has to remind them of how unprofessional they’re being. Nerves eat him up from the inside, a myriad of feelings almost overwhelming, but he keeps a firm lid on them. There will be time to dwell on his own feelings later. Right now, any focus on his emotions will only lead to his downfall. They all know this.</p>
<p>Ghostbur is surprisingly helpful in locating Technoblade, and the adrenaline climbs and climbs the closer they get. And when they get to Techno - when Quackity hears out his stupid fucking claims to have changed (haven’t they all?) and when he puts up with his act of showing them around the house and when he begins to fight them - Quackity swallows down his terror of having Techno’s weapons pointed at him again, and knows exactly what he has to do.</p>
<p>He’s never liked threatening innocents before, but fuck, he doesn’t care right now. </p>
<p>It’s for the greater good.</p>
<p>“STOP!” He roars, silencing and halting everyone in their tracks - minus Techno, who lunges into an attack that Quackity stops with his next words. “I have Carl, I have Carl!! You get away from them- you pull any shit and I fucking kill Carl!”</p>
<p>He watches Techno stop suddenly like he’d been stabbed, watches him try to squirm out of the situation, watches him give in, surrender, drop his weapons. Delight lights Quackity up from the inside out, because God, yes, everything is going exactly to plan like it should. Nothing could be going better. Adrenaline pushes him onwards, mingling with the victory, and allows them to get back to L’Manburg without much difficulty. </p>
<p>(He ignores Tubbo’s nervous jokes about getting reviews, ignores Wilbur’s goddamn dolphin talk, and focuses entirely on Technoblade, because that’s the only fucking person he cares about right then, Technoblade, Techno, the man he’s going to kill.)</p>
<p>(And goddamn, it feels good to be so close to it.)</p>
<p>Things are a little blurry after that. They get Techno to the execution platform, with glee growing every second in Quackity’s heart, and they hide Carl away with Techno’s weapons to stop him from getting them. There is a thrumming in his head as they lead Techno into the cell, a manic thud-thud-thud of his heart as they lock him in there. He spouts some line that belies how fucking eager he is; “This is the night,” he says with glee, “in which you’re finally brought to justice. So much fucking pain you’ve caused our country, and now it’s time to end it all. I’m sorry, Techno-” He pauses, because he has to laugh, has to rub his hands together, “-but I’m just so excited.”</p>
<p>Technoblade isn’t surprised, in his credit; though he arches one eyebrow and drily inquires about the trial.</p>
<p>Quackity grins, all teeth and claws and nastiness. “This is not a trial, Technoblade.”</p>
<p>“This is an execution,” Tubbo says, with a glint in his eyes that’s all steel.</p>
<p>L’Manburg watches, and history holds its breath in preparation to repeat itself.</p>
<p>Tubbo in a box, Techno in a box, the scenes begin to blur. For a moment, when the anvil prepares to come down on Techno’s head, all Quackity can see is fireworks and all he can hear is Schlatt’s laugh. But this is the future they are going towards, they are moving away from the past, so he banishes those thoughts with force and watches with glee as the anvil crushes Technoblade’s skull with its force.</p>
<p>Blood. Blood, thick, red, everywhere. Drowning L’Manburg. Drowning him.</p>
<p>Except history doesn’t repeat itself, because Techno doesn’t fall. He doesn’t crumple to the floor, he stays standing. Phil isn’t screaming in grief for his son, he’s laughing.</p>
<p>Technoblade isn’t dead. He’s never looked more alive.</p>
<p>And Quackity snaps.</p>
<p>It’s been building up in him for a while now; the anger, festering inside of him, tainting him, destroying him from the inside out. Sometimes his body feels less like a body and more like a vessel for his fury. This is one of those times. He can barely contain himself, pursuing an escaping Techno down, down, through twists and turns in tunnels where the darkness eats his vision and he is helpless to his rage, until Techno reaches a room. Quackity gets there just in time to hear him thanking Dream. <em> Dream. </em> He’s too enraged to focus on that now, but he’ll remember it. He’ll fucking remember it.</p>
<p>There is silence in the room for a moment; Techno, backed against a wall; Quackity, a heart in his mouth and a mind screaming for blood. All he can hear are his own harsh breaths and Techno’s controlled ones. </p>
<p>This is it. This is the moment he’s been waiting for.</p>
<p>“What the fuck is this, Techno?” He demands, a primal sort of fear in his stomach. And then, when Techno gives no answer, he asks tersely, “how the <em> fuck </em>did that anvil not kill you?”</p>
<p>Techno actually has the gall to laugh; ominously, menacingly. Quackity wants to step back, but he stands strong. “Did you really think, Quackity,” he chuckles, “that you could kill me that easily?”</p>
<p>And they talk, and Quackity finally, finally, unravels in front of his biggest enemy. Because he knows Techno, despite their differences, will understand. He’s the only one who will. Techno listens as Quackity rambles about the hitlist, about the Withers, about the need in L’Manburg for organisation, control, power, <em> power, </em> all he wants is power over someone like everyone has always had over him-</p>
<p>“And I don’t care how long it fucking takes me,” Quackity spits, fire and fury propelling him onwards, forwards, axe an extension of his body in how comfortable it feels, blood splattered and suffocating, “or what I have to do to get you, Techno- I’m going to fucking kill you. I’m going to kill you, Technoblade.”</p>
<p>Techno grins, and there’s not an ounce of fear or worry in his face. “I have just one question for you, Quackity.”</p>
<p>“What do you have?” He demands, <em> asks, </em> because he’s murderous and unhinged, not <em> uncivil, </em> and lifts his axe, ready to finish the job after answering.</p>
<p>A rustle, and Technoblade pulls out a pickaxe. There’s a gleam in the weapon that reminds Quackity of being hunted, of waking up in cold sweats after nightmares, of his entire life being overrun by the bigger players, fuck, <em> fuck, </em> he just wants one win, <em> please, </em> give him this win-</p>
<p>“Do you think you’re enough to kill me?” Technoblade goads. Quackity erupts.</p>
<p>It’s over remarkably quickly. More quickly than he wants to admit. The end does not come as he’s imagined it coming so many times before; with a crash of Techno falling to the floor, an axe embedded in his throat or stomach; with a plea from his rival; with an unsettling silence as the pig dies, bleeding out on the floor. It does not come with a whoop of victory for Quackity, or a cry of triumph, or a dizzying laugh of relief.</p>
<p>It ends with a whimper. It ends predictably for anyone other than Quackity; with a pickaxe through his teeth, and excruciating pain, and an agonisingly slow death until Techno takes pity on his gurgles of pain and ends him. Quackity wakes up in bed with pain raging through his jaw, chest heaving with breath after ragged breath, and he breaks the bed in his fury. </p>
<p>Tubbo and Fundy find him on his knees beside the splintered remains of his bed. They speak to him, but the only thing he can hear is ringing in his head, and the only thing he can focus on is his own reeling devastation.</p>
<p>And his anger. His anger is, as ever, overwhelming. Fundy grabs him, shakes him roughly to try and snap him out of his self-destructive trance, but Quackity can only shove him off violently and turn to Tubbo. The President, his President. Why isn’t Quackity himself President? Hadn’t he shown himself capable? Hadn’t he proven to Wilbur, Schlatt, everyone, that he could be great? The whispers in his mind are louder than ever, but he numbly orders the Butcher’s Army into their base. They comply, follow his orders, not because they respect him, he knows, but because the look in his eyes makes them think he’ll shatter and go crazy if they don’t. </p>
<p><em> Well, </em> a voice that sounds suspiciously like Schlatt whispers on the wind, <em> crazier than he already is. </em> He ignores that voice with nothing more than a flinch. He’s gotten used to it.</p>
<p>“What happened?” Tubbo asks, when they’re safely inside. Quackity is brimming with angry energy that is only amplified by the posters around him. They’d supposed to be to mock Techno; now, staring at them as they gloat down at him, he can only see Technoblade mocking him. He snarls his way through an explanation of his fight with Techno, glosses over his loss: he doesn’t need to tell them he’d failed. They already know he has. All they ever seem to do is lose: to Techno, who never dies, to Schlatt, who died with L’Manburg, to Dream—</p>
<p>And it’s then that he pauses. Sometimes comes into perspective with crystal cold clarity, and he feels the angry flush drain out of his face. </p>
<p>“It’s fucking Dream, man,” he breathes, albeit shakily, and things click, “it’s always been fucking Dream.”</p>
<p>Who was the one that constantly thwarted their plans, time and time again? Who was the one adversary that was always three steps ahead of them? Quackity swings round wildly from tearing down the posters, hands bloodied (he doesn’t remember when he’d started pulling posters down, his vision is red, the scars on his face redder), to face Tubbo and the other two, who pale in comparison to his President. </p>
<p>Dream. <em> Dream </em> is the one they need to kill. He needs the puppet master gone before he can focus on killing Technoblade — he feels like a fool for thinking otherwise. </p>
<p>When he announces this to the others, when Tubbo uncertainly claims that Dream is their friend, their <em> ally, </em>Quackity slams a hand against the table so hard that Fundy flinches, Tubbo’s posture snaps into Schlatt-administration posture, tense and professional and frightened, and Ranboo glitches, startled. He can’t bring himself to care. </p>
<p>“Big Q,” Tubbo says, appealingly, cautiously, “Dream’s been <em> helping </em> New L’Manburg. We can’t kill him, not while he’s our ally.”</p>
<p>Quackity laughs, harsh and acerbic. “Stop buying his bullshit, Tubbo. He’s not your friend.”</p>
<p>Tubbo lays a hand on his shoulder, and it’s so gentle and steadying that Quackity wants to cry. He turns around instead, grabbing Tubbo’s face between both bloodied hands and holding it tight, tight enough to make Tubbo’s eyes widen. There’s blood on his face now, streaks of red fingerprints to match Quackity’s hands, face, body. So much blood, so much death. It’s become a comfort now. There’s no life in L’Manburg: survivors don’t count, he decides, survivors in L’Manburg aren’t <em> living, </em>not under Dream’s oppression. </p>
<p>“Tubbo, open your fucking eyes, man, no, open your goddamn eyes.” His voice is vicious, Tubbo’s eyes wide in fear. Quackity, at that moment, can’t bring himself to care. “ <em> No! </em> Dream has <em> never </em> been on our side!”</p>
<p>And Tubbo goes to make some excuse, and he can hear Fundy and Ranboo appealing to him in the background, but the static in his mind and red in his vision is so <em> loud </em> that it’s impossible to focus on them. <em> Dream. </em>The puppet master, the director of this whole shitshow. He’s going to put an axe through his fucking head, again and again and again, he’s going to shatter the mask on his face and make sure that his axe is the last thing Dream sees—</p>
<p>“Hey, hey,” Schlatt says, voice soft, firm, promising, “Quackity, look at me.”</p>
<p>And Quackity looks, or maybe he looks at Tubbo, maybe it doesn’t matter: his eyes are blurry with angry tears and he needs <em> something </em> to explode on, or the venom inside will eat him alive. </p>
<p>Schlatt knows this. And he suggests a festival. A celebration. A way to kill Dream without him suspecting. And the tension begins to ooze out of Quackity’s shoulders, even as the trembling in his own hands picks up. A festival. A death. History, he’s realising, is desperate to repeat itself, over and over again. And who is <em> Quackity </em> to try and stop that?</p>
<p>“How does that sound?” Tubbo asks him, encouragingly, and Quackity faintly realises that Tubbo is holding too tightly to his hands. Have Tubbo’s fingers always been so cold and bloody? Has Quackity always been so fragile, so close to shattering?</p>
<p>“I just want him dead, Tubbo,” he whispers, voice barely restrained from shaking, “I just want him gone.”</p>
<p>He needs a win. Just for once, he needs a win.</p>
<p>Tubbo smiles at him, a bloody heart in his mouth and Schlatt in his eyes. Quackity finds comfort in his boy President, in the traumatised teen with too much responsibility, in the kid he’s supposed to be helping stay on the right path. He doesn’t really think they’ve been on that path for a while. Wonders if they were ever truly on it, or if they’ve just been delusional for longer than he’d originally thought </p>
<p>Something in him calms at the sight of Schlatt. Everything will be okay. He and Schlatt will kill Dream, and then they can rule together, best friends conquering the world. They way it was always meant to be. </p>
<p>“And, Big Q?” Schlatt says, gentle voice. “When it’s time?”</p>
<p>He chuckles, in that familiar confident tone Quackity had grown to flinch at, and further grown to miss, and he finds a bloodied axe being pushed into his hands, one that Fundy sucks in a breath at the sight of. </p>
<p>“You can do the deed.” </p>
<p>It’s a promise. Everyone in the room knows it. If Ranboo wanted to object, if Fundy wanted to protest, if Tubbo was still here and watching to the proceedings from the corner of the room, none of them said anything. They’re as bound to this fate as he is. So let him be a weapon, a slaughterhouse. He’ll do what he has to if it means killing Dream and Technoblade and everyone and everything that stands in his way. </p>
<p>And finally, finally, Quackity manages to smile. It’s tremulous and painful from the new wounds on the side of his face, but he pushes through it all the same. </p>
<p><em> Thank you, </em> he doesn’t say, holding the axe tight enough until his knuckles are white bone and aching, <em> I won’t let you down.  </em></p>
<p>Schlatt’s eyes bore into his own, confident and promising. </p>
<p><em> You never do, </em> is the answer Quackity gets, <em> you never could. </em></p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>Somewhere far away, Dream marks a date down in his diary. </p>
<p>
  <em> December 29th, 2020. </em>
</p>
<p>He pauses, as if waiting for a cue, and then continues writing just a few more words;</p>
<p>
  <em> The end of all things.  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>anoooother chapter done! there ya have it; quackity really isn’t doing so hot, someone please send him to therapy LOL. </p>
<p>the next chapter might take a few days; it’s going to be festival orientated, and on the basis of keeping this character-study orientated, i’ll wait to watch the festival before writing it!! depending on how the festival goes, another chapter might be added: i’ll just have to see. </p>
<p>if you liked this, PLEASE leave a like and / or comment !! they really do keep me encouraged and motivated to write, and y’all are always so nice with your words :’)</p>
<p>any predictions for the festival?? let me know!!</p>
<p>thank you so much for reading - i love you all!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. reflections of the past</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i'm back with perhaps the saddest chapter i've written for this fic!! it also happens to be the second last !! thank you so much for being patient - i completely forgot i had to write this, so it's rather delayed, and the dialogue is paraphrased from the festival stream !!</p><p>i really hope you enjoy: half of this was written weeks ago and the other half written just now, so if any of it feels choppy, you know why!! pls be mindful of the trigger warnings too &lt;3</p><p>TRIGGERS: blood, canon-typical swearing, canon-typical violence, death / execution mentions, unreliable narrator, unreliable grasp on reality, manipulation, alcohol / alcohol addiction, cigarettes, and a general depressing self-image </p><p>enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s Dream. It’s always been Dream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lights, cameras, action. L’Manburg is a shitshow, the audience are booing, and the festival is the finale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s how things are supposed to go, anyway. That’s how it happens in the stories - the heroes gather together one last time to defeat the big bad villain and they all get a happily ever after. They heal, they move on, they forget all about the trauma and the memories that keep them up at night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s how the stories go. But this is real life. He forgets that sometimes, forgets that this is his life, that he’s not a law student anymore, he’s not a politician: he’s a fighter now, a soldier in a war he’d tried so hard to end and a rebel against the tyranny threatening to drown the server. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is real life. And real life never goes as smoothly as the stories.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The festival is sickly sweet to hide the way its country is rotting. L’Manburg is nothing more than a zombie by this point, a decaying shadow of what it once had been, and Quackity stands aloof from the festivities, angry, alone against the clouds that threaten to cover the rapidly fading sun. Fundy seems happier than he has done in a long time - if the son of a bitch has found a way to heal and he hasn’t told him, Quackity will kill him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he wants to heal, not just yet. Not until Dream is dead; Dream and every other monster on the server. Dream, Technoblade, Eret and anyone else that threatens his home, his family, his friends. There are very, very few material things he cares for on this server now, and he hordes them greedily to his chest - he keeps his hoarse safely away from the festival, he keeps Karl and Sapnap and the rest of his friends in the dark about what they’re planning, and he knows he’ll die to keep Schlatt safe if he has to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...Tubbo. <em>Tubbo,</em> he means, not Schlatt, because Schlatt is already dead, and that’s Quackity’s fault, for not looking out for him. It’s so hard to differentiate between the two; L’Manburg and Manburg blend into one nauseating time, Tubbo dead, Schlatt dead, Wilbur, Ghostbur, a festival, a festival. Everything is all the same, and when he tries at night to sort between them, to tell himself that Schlatt is dead and never coming back and that his past is over, he can recover, he can’t help but think otherwise. He can’t help but </span>
  <em>
    <span>hope </span>
  </em>
  <span>otherwise. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It must be bad, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Schlatt whispers in his dreams, </span>
  <em>
    <span>if you want me back.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quackity doesn’t laugh like he used to anymore. It’s not any different in his dreams: his laugh is choked, humorless. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You have no idea,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he murmurs, and Schlatt smiles like he’s won.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His laugh is just as empty at the festival, where people get the hint to leave him alone before too long. Quackity watches over the mellow celebrations with a heavy heart and a heavier axe in his inventory. He’ll join them in celebration soon. When this is over, when Dream is dead, he’ll join them and celebrate like he’s never celebrated before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he’ll even be happy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dream showing up late is his first indicator that the day isn’t going to go well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream showing up </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry </span>
  </em>
  <span>is his second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when he sees the Community House - the </span>
  <em>
    <span>remains </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the Community house - Quackity gets his third indicator, three strikes, they’re all out, they’ve all lost. Dream is angrier than he’s ever seen him before, hands shaking in his rage, and he sounds insane, rambling about Tommy and demanding the discs. And then Tommy is there, with Technoblade, of all people - Quackity chokes on his betrayal, barely has time to register it before Tubbo and Tommy are fighting, and they’re screaming at each other, they’re sobbing, they’re going to kill each other-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All over music discs, Quackity thinks bleakly, all over fucking music discs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that’s an oversimplification. He’s not an idiot, after all, no matter how he acts. The discs aren’t just music discs - they’re the melody of rebellion, the chorus of sentiment that Dream lacks, the chords of attachment. They’re the real unfinished symphony, because L’Manburg’s symphony had finished long ago, and Quackity can only watch numbly as Tubbo hands over the disc to Dream at Tommy’s miserable request.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>The discs are worth more than you ever were,</em> he’d spat only minutes before.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh Tommy,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quackity wants to tell him sadly, in one of his first moments of clarity from the red angry haze that’s been blinding him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you could never choose the discs over Tubbo.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream has the discs. He has both of the discs. And he has nothing to lose anymore. A too-wide grin splits his face as Quackity’s blood runs cold, and Dream laughs- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jesus, God, when had he become such a power-hungry monster?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone gathered round is silent when Dream mocks Tubbo, none of them speaking. Quackity feels defensiveness turn his anger to something more tangible in his stomach, a knot forming in his insides, because fuck, Tubbo is a shitty President, but he’s trying his best, he’s trying not to be Wilbur, he’s trying not to be Schlatt, he’s trying to fill shoes his feet just don’t fill. And Dream </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>this; </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>known this, as he’d buttered Tubbo up and praised him and made him feel like he was doing good. Tubbo’s face shatters now, devastation setting in as he begins to realize the enormity of what giving up the disc entails. But nobody comes to his defense, nobody except Tommy; it’s then that Quackity realizes Tubbo and Tommy will never truly part ways, because they’re soul mates, in the most platonic sense of the word - they’re destined to be friends forever, no matter how hard Dream tries to tear them away from each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Schlatt had never had that. Wilbur had never had that. Quackity stares at the two boys in hungry, hungry curiosity that turns to delight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe history doesn’t repeat after all. Maybe, just maybe, they can still win.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Dream reveals Ranboo is a traitor.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ranboo is a traitor.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Any shred of his former hope shatters instantly, and Quackity stares at Ranboo, who looks frightened and near tears. No. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No,</span>
  </em>
  <span> surely not. But Ranboo opens his mouth to deny it and nothing comes out. Suddenly, it’s not Dream that Quackity wants to execute. Dream is a problem, but he had never pretended to be innocent. Suddenly, it’s Ranboo who deserves to die, for betraying L’Manburg, for betraying Tubbo, for betraying him. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(“Tubbo- he’s a fuckin’ traitor,” Schlatt spits at him the day before the first festival, already half drunk. Quackity stares at him, heart in his mouth. This isn’t new knowledge: the kid couldn’t have been more obvious, but he’d been hoping Schlatt would never notice. “What say we teach him a lesson, huh?”)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything else passes in a bit of a blur, he’ll admit. Quackity fades from the festival, stuck in the past, watching the scene unfold like he’s a spectator in his own life. Dream leaves, Tommy is back in L’Manburg, and Quackity can’t take his eyes off Ranboo. A traitor. A <em>traitor</em> all this time, passing all their information and all their plans to Dream. They could have never won, thanks to Ranboo. They had been doomed since the start.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to kill him,” he breathes, and Tubbo, his audience, stares like he’s looking at a stranger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want- You want to kill Ranboo?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quackity laughs, numb to the thought. It’s not a matter of what he wants anymore - though he does want Ranboo dead, he admits it, he does. It’s about what L’Manburg needs; it’s about what this rotting, corroding corpse of a nation needs to keep it alive. “I do,” he confesses like a prayer, “I do, Tubbo, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tubbo,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he deserves it, he’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>traitor,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you know he deserves this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mind is spinning with ideas - they can make it all good and proper, a proper execution like they had been ready to do for Dream - violence sings through his veins, unlike last time; this time, he thinks he might be playing a different role. But he knows this script, he’s acted this out before, he knows how it ends. It ends with a boy encased in a box and it ends with the death of a traitor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows this script like the back of his hand. From the ashen look on his face, so does Tubbo, and he's going to go off-book.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. No.” Tubbo has never sounded more forceful, a wild note arising in his voice, frightened, emotional. “Doesn’t this remind you of someone, Big Q? Doesn’t saying that make you feel like someone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quackity stops dead. Tubbo steps forwards, pushing himself off the wall and looking up at him with fierce, fierce eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s execute Ranboo for being a traitor up on stage at the festival he helped decorate!” Tubbo mocks, and <em>there’s</em> the Schlatt in his voice; it’s the only person who speaks so meanly, so bluntly, so unlike Tubbo that it stings. “While we’re at it, let’s execute him with a firework! Doesn’t- Doesn’t that ring any bells in your mind, Big Q? Doesn’t that remind you of the very person we both swore not to become?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tubbo, listen-” Quackity begins, voice uncertain for the first time. He feels like he’s lost his verbal footing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo jabs a finger into his chest; Quackity flinches, blinking, and Schlatt is doing the same thing to him a year ago, breath alcoholic and eyes mean. And then he’s in the present again, and Tubbo’s breath isn’t full of drink and his eyes aren’t mean, just frightened, just miserable. “I think I’ve listened to you enough,” Tubbo says, and there’s almost bitterness in his voice, though it’s not directed at Quackity, “Dream was right when he said I was the worst President.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, unhappily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s about time I start making my own decisions. I won’t let you hurt Ranboo. And if you do… You’ll be a traitor to L’Manburg, Quackity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quackity gazes at his friend for a second, wordless, confused beyond belief. Because Tubbo is the President, and he’s supposed to do what’s right for L’Manburg. Because Tubbo is President, and Ranboo is the traitor he’s supposed to kill. Because-</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Because,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he realizes slowly, Tubbo is President, and... he’s not acting like Schlatt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Something clicks in his brain, and suddenly, everything is different. Suddenly, there is no trace of Schlatt in Tubbo, except from the Presidential suit. Unlike Schlatt, whose suit fit him perfectly, Tubbo is drowning in his Presidential suit. Tubbo is President, but he’s not Schlatt, and he never has been, despite the parallels, despite his fears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo isn’t Schlatt, but Quackity fears that he might be. Nausea fills his stomach, and he’s left on uneven grounds, unmoored and lost. Tubbo smiles weakly at him when he sees something registering, but Quackity can’t smile back. There’s blood on his apron and some of it is his. There’s blood on his apron and some of it is others’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s blood on his hands, and for the first time, Quackity wonders how he let it get so bad.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not until he gets home that night for perhaps the last night - fuck, Jesus, Dream is blowing up L’Manburg tomorrow, and Quackity is having a <em>breakdown</em> over his shitty ex-best friend, because he needs the limelight, <em>go fucking figure,</em> his priorities have always been skewed - that he realizes he’s right. He sits himself in front of the mirror in his house, ignoring the shake in his hands and the rapid thudding of his heart, and taking in his own reflection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks like shit. It’s the nicest way to describe him, honestly: he’s covered in blood and he’s trembling and there are dark, dark circles under his eyes that he recognizes from being with Schlatt in the last few months of his life. He recognizes so much of Schlatt in himself - in his posture, slouched but proud, in his mouth, pressed into an unyielding firm line, in the tension in his jaw and the cigarettes lying around his house and the fact Tubbo has been keeping him on fucking alcohol watch like he’s going to drink himself to death at any point. His eyes are harder than they once had been, and with a start, he remembers the way Tubbo had leaned away from him the moment he’d raised his voice at the festival, like he’d been scared. Like Quackity had been...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Releasing a shaky breath, he closes his eyes, taking in as steady a breath as he could and holding. When he opens his eyes, Quackity stares hard at himself in the mirror, and sees Schlatt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not standing behind him, not floating around him. Not a ghost, for the first time. Not in Tubbo, not in a dream. Instead when Quackity looks at himself in the mirror, he sees Schlatt where his own reflection should be - a tired Schlatt, a shaking, bloodied Schlatt, but Schlatt nonetheless.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh no,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks helplessly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh no.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, when he hears Schlatt’s whispers in his head, he covers his ears, as if that’ll block out his words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really fucked up this time, Alex,” he says, and he doesn’t even sound mean this time, just quiet, just reflective, like he’s sorry, like he’s really there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quackity doesn’t remember this part of the story. He doesn’t remember any Greek hero, Icarus or otherwise, having to deal with this, this emotional bullshit of cyclical trauma: maybe he'd understand how to deal with everything if they had. But he’s not a Greek hero. In the end, he’s not even sure if he’s a hero.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Burying his head in his hands, Quackity cries bitterly. The sky opens up and mourns with him. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>:') i listened to sad songs writing this last part and i think you can tell, lmao!! but there Is a happy ending, you'll be relieved to know: it'll all be revealed in the final chapter :)</p><p>if you enjoyed, pls feel free to leave a kudos / a comment !! they really mean the world to me</p><p>thank you so much for reading, ily all and i hope you have an amazing day &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. spring blossoms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The past and the present aren’t so linear as they are a circle, in Quackity’s experience, because no matter what steps he makes to try and improve the present, the past is always there to trip him up. </p><p>“Fuck,” he whispers, voice strangled, frightened, “fuck, I messed up.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>and finally, we arrive at the end of speculum !! welcome to the final chapter: god, this made me emotional to write :’) bizarrely enough, i’m so proud of quackity in this end chapter, and hope you are too — i hope the journey he goes on in this final chapter is believable, enjoyable, and just as emotional to all of you  as it was to me !! </p><p>ANNOUNCEMENT: with quackity’s impending lore dropping within the next day or so, i’m delighted to announce there will be a sequel to speculum called espejo !! it’ll follow each lore stream we get from quackity, and i’m genuinely so excited for it — he’s my second favourite character and i can’t wait to see what’s in store for us :D so stay tuned to my account or my tumblrs (@dreamsclock and @vegasquackity) for more information on that !!</p><p>warnings: self hatred, blood/injury, dissociation, death mentions, mentions of pet death, unhealthy thoughts. if you need any other warnings added, please let me know !!</p><p>enjoy &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>After Doomsday, he finds his way back to a handheld mirror and clings to it like it’s his saving grace instead of his death sentence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Schlatt still stares back at him through dark eyes and a steely expression that quickly crumbles: fuck, he hasn’t cried this hard in a long fucking time, then again, he thinks this has been building up inside him for far too long. Everything has been falling apart around him — Schlatt, L’Manburg, his friends, his enemies: he’d just been blind to how far he’d shattered too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps the worst part is how slowly L’Manburg had been put down. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Put down </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the wrong phrase: putting down a pet was quick, painless, kind. L’Manburg’s death had been anything but. Dream and Technoblade and Philza had been merciless, ripping apart the lands until even the heavens had sent lightning to scream for release. The gaping crater where L’Manburg lay would forever haunt his memories. L’Manburg hadn’t just been killed: it had been eviscerated, blown to bits and beyond, and despite the hatred he’d come to hold for it, Quackity grieves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because L’Manburg had been something to him at some point; something to everyone, but to him in particular. He’d come to L’Manburg three years ago with spring in his step and ambition in his eyes, ready to challenge Wilbur’s shitty one-party election and pull down the walls that excluded the rest of the world from L’Manburg. L’Manburg had been his dream, his home, and with the election had come hope of finally making the changes he’d wanted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then there had been Schlatt, and then Wilbur, Techno, Dream—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And who is he kidding? He’s just as bad as all four of them. Tightening his grip on the mirror enough to hurt, Quackity forces himself to think about the elation he’d felt at Schlatt winning the Presidency. Because no matter what he likes to pretend, he’s not blameless. None of them are, except Tommy and Tubbo maybe, because they’d been kids and still were despite everything. Quackity has as much of L’Manburg’s blood on his hands as everyone else does, and the realisation almost sends him crashing to his knees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s just as bad as Schlatt. He hadn’t stopped Tubbo’s execution and had actively desired Ranboo’s. The past and the present aren’t so linear as they are a circle, in Quackity’s experience, because no matter what steps he makes to try and improve the present, the past is always there to trip him up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” he whispers, voice strangled, frightened, “fuck, I messed up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s undeniable in the harsh morning light that breaks the darkness of Doomsday. He’s fucked up, maybe irreparably. He’d been hopeless during Doomsday, had let his trauma and anger get the better of him at the peak of the Butcher’s Army, and isn’t all of this at least half his fault? In his attempt to stop everyone else from becoming Schlatt, he’d been blind to how close he’d come to being Schlatt; how the harder he tried not to be like the one man he loved and despised more than any other, the more similar he’d become. A low noise leaves him - pained, anguished - and Quackity wants to hurl the mirror into the ground and watch it crack into a thousand irreparable pieces, so he does, taking no joy in the way it screams as it breaks. Pausing, feet rooting to the ground, he can’t help but stare down forlornly into his shattered reflection that fragments into tiny shards before his eyes. No parts look like him - it’s funny, he thinks, hysterically, because each part looks exactly how he feels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he notices something, and crouches to get a closer look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hair is too long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s what he notices. It’s peeking out from behind his beanie in every angle, dark and messy and uncooperative. He’s been a little too busy to call up Sam and request a haircut, but it’s noticeable, the length, the lack of style. It hasn’t been cut since he’d joined Pogtopia all those months ago - shit, it feels like a lifetime ago. So much has happened since then. But… this isn’t Schlatt’s hair. Schlatt had always kept his hair short, neatly trimming it whenever it passed an acceptable length. Quackity lifts his fingers to comb through the front of his hair, tentative, hesitant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He also notices the scar on his face - a new one, alongside the speckles of scars and scratches from the first festival explosion. He’s a lot more careful touching this scar, because it’s newer, it’s fresher, in memory and just on his face in general. Techno hadn’t been joking around when he’d threatened to put a pickaxe through his teeth; Quackity doubts he’ll ever forget that pain, or the humiliation, of that day. His scar will always remind him even if he begins to forget - a long, nasty line running over his face, through his eye, blurring his vision. It splits his lip, and in the mirror, his reflection winces instinctively. It hurts like a bitch, and for a moment, his misery breaks in order to curse at the pain, moving his fingers away from it instantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s interesting, because Schlatt doesn’t have a scar there. He had a scar running across his nose, sure, after breaking it as a kid, and his left horn had a groove in it from a fight gone wrong, but he doesn’t have a scar in the same place as Quackity does. It’s impossible to keep his fingers away from his scar for long; in wonder at his revelation, standing in the rain dripping wet and exhausted and long past his last hopes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds hope again in the shattered mirror on the ground, and in the lightheaded relief of realising he’s different. It’s the smallest of differences — a scar in a different place, nothing noticeable, too long hair, nothing important — but for Quackity? It’s a world of difference. Recovery isn’t a landslide; it’s the slip of a rock, and Quackity thinks his might have just started. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, picking up the largest shard about the size of his hand, he begins to look at himself some more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes are a shade darker than Schlatt’s. So is his skin: Schlatt had only gotten increasingly paler in his last months, and Quackity relishes noticing the difference now, staring at his hands like he’s never seen them before. And they’re not bloodstained, they’re not sharpened claws: they’re shaking and dirtied and human, human, and he feels dizzy with relief. </span>
</p><p><span>He’s different. He’s different. </span><em><span>Despite</span></em> <em><span>everything,</span></em><span> Quackity thinks, </span><em><span>it’s still fucking me. </span></em></p><p>
  <span>Getting up is impossible, so he sits there in the rain on his knees, clutching a broken shard of mirror with the remains of L’Manburg at his back. He’ll get ill if he sits there too long, but he’s transfixed, staring at every speckle on his face and every strand of hair and every stitch of clothing and thinking God, </span>
  <em>
    <span>God,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s not Schlatt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because, he realises, this is real life. Not a story. He knows this, of course he does — his life has been nothing like a fairytale or Greek myth, and it may just work in his favour now. There are no happy endings for him, but maybe that means there are no tragedies, either. Because real life doesn’t end with one or the other. It ends with both or with neither, and Quackity realised that his life doesn’t need to end in the tragedy it currently is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ending as a tragedy is what Schlatt would want. And, for once, Quackity doesn’t give a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> about Schlatt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With effort, he pushes himself to his feet. The world presses down on his shoulders, and he forcefully shoves back. Every muscle in his body aches, and there’s a thin line of blood pooling on his palm from how hard he’s clutching the shard, but when he looks into the reflection again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> reflection, there’s an odd expression on his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, he realises, after a minute of close examination, he’s smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a pretty fucking awful smile — it’s more of a grimace than it is a smile, and his tooth is chipped and it hurts his scarred lip and it doesn’t look right on his hollow face — but it’s a start. It’s something other than the grim resignation and bitter resentment that has been plaguing him for months, and goddamn, he’s desperate, he’ll take what he can get. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quackity tentatively pulls the expression again in the mirror. Just as odd, just as hollow, but there’s a spark there. A spark that reminds him of playing guitar and screech-laughing with Karl and Sapnap and being totally and utterly in love with the world. He remembers being that kid, the loud mouthed asshole who would start fights and lose them just as quick, who would pull all-nighters the night before exams to study despite getting top marks effortlessly, who would ruin himself if it meant inciting the change he’d wanted to see in the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it hurts, to remember who he used to be, to look into the mirror and see who he’s become. But there’s a goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>spark,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Quackity is determined to make it catch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get a grip,” he mutters, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>there’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> something he recognises: something lighthearted, sardonic despite his struggles, “you’ve fucking got this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It might be a lie. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>like he’s got anything — no game plan, no armour or weapons or people to rely on — but he supposes that he has himself for the first time in a while, which is a start. And a start is all he needs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck, he feels like a cheesy Christmas card. Quackity snorts, distastefully, and takes his first tentative step forwards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(It’s not much. It’s a start.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(A start is all he’s ever needed. The world isn’t ready for how quickly he’ll learn to fly again.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because here’s what every fucking person in this server that’s gone wrong doesn’t know. This has never been a story. Wilbur isn’t Washington gone wrong, Tommy isn’t Hamilton or Theseus or anything other than a stupid fucking kid with stupid music discs and way too much trauma. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream had been wrong, and always will be wrong, because Quackity isn’t Icarus. He still has his wings, he can relearn how to use them. That doesn’t mean he has any fucking clue who he is — only that he isn’t Icarus, and certainly isn’t J Fucking <em>Schlatt. </em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a breath, looks up from the mirror, and Schlatt isn’t anywhere to be seen. Maybe he’s still in L’Manburg, maybe he’d never existed at all, Quackity can’t know for sure. But when he returns his gaze to the mirror, he’s himself: no horns, no nothing, and it makes him feel lighter than he has in months. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>...Which, actually, is pretty fucking useless right now, because rather than having a Moment In The Rain like he’s suffering from Tommy’s paikfully contagious main character syndrome, Quackity would much rather be moving and finding shelter. Healing, recovery, whatever fucking bullshit he’s going through can wait until he survives the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Quackity mutters to himself out loud, just to hear the cadences in his voice that differ from Schlatt, “let’s figure this shit out on the move.”</span>
</p><p><span>He doesn’t intend to stay in L’Manburg, or anywhere near it, not right now. It’s too fresh a wound: he needs somewhere new, somewhere with opportunity, because goddamn, he needs to sort shit out and he needs time to process. There are still threats — Dream and Technoblade are looming larger than ever after Doomsday, and Quackity has unfinished business with both of them, but for now?</span><br/><br/>Let L’Manburg rest like it deserves. He refuses to be haunted by another ghost. He’ll find home somewhere else until he’s recovered, and then he’ll go back. Maybe. Nothing is set in stone anymore. He has no mandatory story to follow; and fuck, he’s decided to write his own. </p><p>
  <span>With a last glance into the mirror, Quackity begins to walk away, L’Manburg and Schlatt’s grave growing more and more distant as he goes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost recognises his smile this time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hey, he’ll work on it. It might just take some time. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>and we hit the end of speculum. damn, what a journey ,, </p><p>thank you so so much to everyone for sticking this through with me and for being so supportive !! i appreciate it more than i can possible tell you all: every comment, every kudos, every bookmark, has meant the world to me. i really hope you enjoyed this journey, and that you’ll enjoy espejo when it starts being updated too !!</p><p>if you enjoyed, please leave a kudos / comment if you want :D</p><p>thank you so much all again: you’re all wonderful, ily all :’)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i hope you enjoyed!! a short chapter to start this off - they'll probably end up getting longer v quickly though, knowing me dbfkdfb :) if you liked, considering leaving a like and / or comment !!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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